I can still see myself in that hotel room in Birmingham, in pain from stuff I’m not supposed to be feeling pain from, wondering if I’ll sleep tonight or just lie there wanting to go to sleep but not able to like I have the last 5 nights before it.
That’s when the want for the sleeping pills hits me. I can actually taste those little blue bombers— another treat reserved for active, relevant, contributing big leaguers who have the luxury of the line like, “I need them, Doc, so I can get some rest because we’re flying cross country.” For guys like me, guys who just got done seeing a psychologist for injury related depression, they’re a no-no. A never again, in fact.
Ironically, never used them on a plane. Sure I said I needed them for the plane but that’s only because that’s what everyone else said they needed ‘em for. I had too much work to get done on the plane. I was on deadline for the first book, and, since I’d never written anything beyond a 20-page college paper before, putting the finishing touches on page 340 felt like cutting diamonds. While the fellas split bets on cards, and harangued the female flight attendants for another beer, or blue bomber-ed themselves in to beyond the cloud bliss, I had headphones on and laptop out, grinding away in the Gospels.
Once my mind got pulled into something I had a hard time pulling it out. I’d get to the park early—because rookies have to be there early—and I’d work on the book. Then I’d suit up and play baseball player, sitting at the rear of the pen hoping that Cito would decide to pull me off the shelf, even to face just one batter, so the highlight of my day as a thrower wasn’t heaving candy to the kids hovering over the edge of the bullpen wall. Then, after the game, when the boys made their nightly plans, I’d bow out and head back to the hotel and write until 3 am. Rinse, lather, repeat.
At night, I’d close my eyes and see the computer screen. Then, I’d get anxious about being a rookie in the bigs juggling a book that could get me fired, or famous, or famously fired since I was pitching well in my limited outings but had the audacity to believe I could write about a game that vehemently despised everyone who did what I was about to do. That’s when I took the pills.
I wanted to shut my mind down and the pills were great for that. One pill and I felt like I was sleep walking. Two pills made me feel like I was zombified. Three pills… Three pills and a few beers and I could taste the chemicals and the booze crawling up the back of my throat. When my mouth felt medicated, I knew no matter how hard I tried to stay plugged into the work and the worry of my life as an aspiring player/author, I would inevitably fall, backwards, heavily, into the pillow—God what an amazing feeling.
I liked it. I actually felt like I deserved it, since I was what I was, in the world that I was. I felt entitled to it, like most of the guys felt entitled to the things that helped them survive at a place the majority of the population would never understand. Looking back, that really had nothing to do with why I wanted the pills, though. It was just a sweet, rationalization for a simple concept: for the workaholic with the over active mind, going to sleep on demand is a beautiful, addictive thing. A very addictive thing, actually, and it didn’t take long before I needed the pills, couldn’t sleep with out them, would just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder who the hell I was and how I got here and what else I could take that would make me feel like my head was going numb when the pills ran out.
I wont tell you here what that was like, it’s a story for another day, maybe another book. But I can see it, etched in my mind like a scar. I can see the terrible place it put me, the not so big league hotels far away from the big league team, my family, my wife, and reality itself. I can see the ceiling in Birmingham staring back at me on my hotel bed, with my sore arm that was supposed to be feeling better by now, but wasn’t, and might never feel better agin.